


Oh My Dear (what have you done?)

by Anonymous



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Blood, Gen, Murder, Not Happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2020-08-10 10:43:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20134153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: you kill your brother one Sunday night, by accident. That’s what you say.(You’ve got claw marks from where he fought you.)





	Oh My Dear (what have you done?)

**Author's Note:**

> yeah I watched a bunch of scary movies so

Sometimes, when you are angry, the world turns into gray haze and fog and you’re only aware of the damage you’ve done when reality snaps back into place. It happened when you were eight and your cousin Gladstone called you dumb one too many times, and you’d gotten so fed up and angry you hadn’t paused to think before you acted, balling up your little fist and clocking him in the beak so hard his nose bled. He was older than you, and you’d had to practically bonk him with your hands over your head because of his stupid growth spurt. You’d felt bad afterwards, when he’d bled, and when he’d cried, and when Grandma and your brother and your other cousin Fethry were all upset with you because you weren’t supposed to hit.

Grandma just sighed when you explained to her that you really hadn’t meant to do it, it was that just sometimes, when you were really mad, and when you felt the anger bubble up and explode out of you like a volcano, you couldn’t really control it. You tried to tell her that it was like your vision went all red and you didn’t know what you were doing until it happened, and that really, it was an accident. You try and tell her that just sometimes, when you are _ angry, _the world turns into gray haze and fog and you’re only aware of the damage you’ve done when reality snaps back into place.

This was not one of those times.

Everything is crystal clear, when you loosen your hands and slide your palms up and away, drawing them back to your chest, sliding off of where you'd had him pinned to the ground by sitting on his chest. You look at your palms, and you can see every wrinkle, every feather. There are claw marks across your wrists, blood dripping down your fingers and the back of your hand and your forearms where he’d desperately tried to tear you away, and you remember feeling the way his heartbeat pulsed wildly under your index finger as he’d struggled. You remember that he shut his eyes, at one point. He couldn’t look at you. He didn’t want to watch you kill him.

He’s limp, on the deck of his houseboat, and it’s rocking in the pool outside your uncle's mansion and it smells like chlorine and copper, and the moonlight cuts across his face and leaves him in shadows where his face is angled away from you. You can’t seem to stop looking at him, can’t tear your eyes away from how unnaturally still he is, lying there, on the deck of his houseboat, in the pool outside his uncle's mansion, and the moonlight cuts across your raised palms and hides the scratches in shadows. There’s blood and skin underneath his fingernails.

There’s the sound of the door opening, the sliding glass door that you use to go straight to the kitchen, and when you raise your head it’s your uncle. He can’t see your brother where he stands, just your head where you’re peeking over the railing and he smiles a little, and there's sympathy there, and he says _ it didn’t go well? _ Because you’d told him about how your brother was acting so distant and strange towards you since you'd returned and you didn’t know why so you'd come out here to talk to him. You look at your brother where he’s growing cold in the one place he should feel safe- his home.

_ I messed up_, you say, because it’s the truth.

_ It was an accident_, you say, because you can’t admit the truth.

(there’s blood and skin underneath his fingernails.)

(he fought you and he could have _ stopped you _ but you’re his sister and he couldn’t kill you and you wouldn’t have let go unless he did.)

Your uncle helps you hide the body.

You think that should make you angry, you think you should be upset with him for it, but you can’t be. Not when you saw him huddled on the deck of your brothers houseboat, holding your brother to his chest, with blank eyes and half-singing old gaelic nursery rhymes like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it. You think you should be angry, but you can’t be, not after he’d looked up at you and said _ I won’t lose you both _, and then he’d gathered up your brother and carried his body down the gangplank and to the garage and left you behind.

You think you should be angry, you think you should be upset with _yourself_, because you’re a murderer, but you’re not. Not even as you watch him carried away.

(And he’d looked so small, in your Uncles arms, like he was four years old again and he’d fallen asleep on the couch instead of in his bed, and your Uncle would grumble and groan but he’d always scoop him up so gently and kindly, supporting his head on his chest, and carry him up to bed.)

(There was no reason to hold him gently now, to support his head, but your uncle did it anyway.)

He puts him in the trunk of an old car, you learn, after you follow him into the garage in an almost stupor. He keeps on moving, he leaves, comes back with a suitcase- it belonged to your brother, the biggest suitcase from a matching set you’d bought him for christmas one year, and your uncle tossed it into the back seat, and he won’t look at you. He won’t look at you and you wonder if it’s because he’s repulsed by the gouges in your arms, and you wonder if it’s because he knows the truth.

_ It was an accident _, you say, because it feels like you're rotting from the inside out, raw and festering and bloody.

(and you are bloody, from where he’d fought you, when you killed him.)

_ I won’t lose you both, _ your uncle repeats, and it’s only now you put together that he’s setting up a narrative. The suitcase, the car, the expensive and gold artifacts he tosses into the car at random.

(Your brother told you once, when you were both sixteen, that he wanted to run away sometimes. He confessed it in the dark of your room, in the bottom bunk of your bunk beds, the dark lending him boldness and bravery.)

(he did leave, when he was eighteen and he’d enlisted in the navy.)

He hands you car keys, the keys to his car, not the one your brother was currently stuffed in. _ Follow me, _ he says, _ stay close, don’t draw attention. _

He takes you two hours outside duckburg, it’s where he hides him.

Your hands hurt from where they’re curled around the wooden handle of the shovel he’d given you. Your hands hurt from where they’d curled around flesh and blood and bone, only hours earlier, and you’d have to hold so so tightly because he was squirming and fighting you. Your hands hurt from where he’d scratched you when he fought you when you killed him. Your uncle digs most of the hole, but it’s not really a hole, it’s a grave, and you should call it that. An unmarked grave in the middle of nowhere nestled between a big fir tree and shrubs that all looked the same, and even if you wanted to you knew you couldn't find it again if you tried.

(your uncle wrapped him up in a blanket at some point, you can’t see his face when you both lower him to the ground, and you pretend not to see hear feel your uncle crying.)

You go home, and you take a shower while your uncle rinses off the dirt from the car you'd both ridden back in. the water stings your cuts (where he’d tried to stop you.) but you can't dwell. It’s over. Life moves on.

(Your uncle won't look at you, and you think maybe he’s lost both of you anyway.)

(Your children are inconsolable, the housekeeper's daughter is quiet and stiller than she’s ever been. Her little friend looks right through you, sometimes, and you think she knows. She knows what you are. She knows what you are. She knows what you are.)

(People come looking for him, friends, family. Your uncle says he stole a car, packed one of his suitcases full of clothes, and ran away. Sometimes you pretend that’s the truth.)

Sometimes you wake up at night, and your heartbeat is racing, and you have the afterimage of that fir tree and those shrubs imprinted into your eyelids. An unmarked grave. An unmarked grave where your brother that you were supposed to love and protect and grow old with lays beneath the earth and rots.

Sometimes, when your uncle can bear to look at you, his eyes say _ why. _

(You’d gone out there to talk to him, just to talk, to try and mend bridges, but you’d killed him.)

(and he’d fought you and he’d scratched you and he’d closed his eyes because he couldn’t watch you kill him, and he’d cried.)

(there’s blood and skin underneath his fingernails, there’s blood and skin underneath a fir tree and underneath the dirt in the middle of nowhere two hours outside of duckburg, where you and your uncle had dumped his body and the car he says your brother stole, and you get away with it.)

_ I love you, and I know you're their mother, but I can’t just sign them away, _ he’d said, face tight, _ I can’t give you custody, they’re my kids too. _

sometimes, when someone says something that makes you _ angry _ , the world turns into gray haze and fog and you’re only aware of the damage you’ve done when reality snaps back into place. You lose control, you don’t know what you're doing, it’s an _ accident. _When that happens, it's not on purpose. it's an accident.

This was not one of those times.


End file.
